


The King of the Sword

by xerchisha



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Canon Relationships, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Role Reversal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-15
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-04-09 13:15:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4350194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xerchisha/pseuds/xerchisha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the mission to Solomon's Temple goes terribly wrong, Altair is seriously wounded, and Malik is left to take his place as the Mentor's star pupil. [Currently on Hiatus.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, I can't believe it took me two years to actually get the first chapter reasonably presentable. However because of this time gap, I apologize for any irregularities or inconsistencies in the writing style.  
> The title is an approximate translation of Malik's name.  
> This basically follows canon events from the first game onwards, only with Malik and Altair's roles reversed.  
> If you're looking for AltMal, I'm afraid you'll be disappointed! This fic is going to be mostly ship free, though I might write some shippy fics in the same universe later on.  
> Any historical or lingual inaccuracies that are not specifically related to the game are 100% my fault. Unfortunately it is not my fault that Masyaf in-game is in a different local than it is in reality, or that de Sable's age and date of death are inaccurate.  
> Otherwise, I hope you enjoy, because I am planning on seeing this fic through to the end.

Malik would remember the sound of the stone crumbling beneath his brother’s feet for the rest of his life. He would remember lunging for him as he fell, only to be pulled back from the precipice.

    Altair was saying something, hissing it into Malik’s ear, but he didn’t hear; he wasn’t listening. His only thought was that was his little brother, falling from the high edge -- falling into a room crawling with dangerous templars. His groans of pain would surely bring them to him, and who knew what would happen then?

“Malik! If you want a chance to save your brother, you will stop and listen!”

Hadn’t he just been the one telling the Master Assassin to stop and listen to reason? Hadn’t he been lecturing him on the unnecessary loss of innocent life? That felt strangely distant, strangely separate from himself.

    A hand cracked across his face, and his teeth clicked together over his tongue.

    “Snap out of it and listen, Malik!” Altair’s voice was a rough whisper. Already the Templars were approaching, swords drawn. Malik’s eyes swiveled to meet his.

“I will go down and defend your brother. You must complete our mission, understand?”

“You will only go after de Sable, my brother be damned! Let me go!”

His face was impassive. “I do not deny I will go after him if the opportunity presents itself. But I will ensure Kadar’s safety first.”

    “Liar--”

    “You will listen to your betters, Malik! Retrieve our prize; I will handle the Templars. Go!” He shoved Malik towards the scaffolding along the wall, and leapt from the ledge, leaving the other no choice but to obey. The sounds of Altair's vicious attack were the backdrop to his frantic ascent up the scaffolding, and more than once he was tempted to look back and watch the deadly elegance that was Altair in combat.

But there wasn't time; each wasted second was one second more that Altair had to fight alone, and brought with it the chance for re-enforcements to arrive. So he ran, leaping perilously across the rickety scaffolding, not daring to so much as pause and catch his breath until he was on the stone ledge above the gateway.

The Templars, despite having erected the scaffolding and made the necessary preparations, had yet to claim their treasure. It sat upon a great stone ark, looking for all the world like a golden bud that had sprouted out of the grey rock. Malik reached for it, gingerly resting his fingers on the metal surface; but something made him stop, and turn.

Altair was still fighting, and the bodies of slain Templars littered the floor about him. As Malik watched, one Templar fell, and Altair turned his blade on the other. It looked like the fight was nearly won, and they would be able to escape before re-enforcements arrived.

But there was motion behind Altair. Malik looked, hoping it was Kadar -- but, to his horror, it was a second Templar, one Altair did not see, and they were raising their sword--

"Altair! Behind you!"

Altair glanced briefly up at him, then turned, pulling his dagger from the other Templar's chest and raising the heavily armored bracer in one fluid motion, moving to deflect the falling blade.

But something was wrong. The angle at which the sword was coming down didn’t line up with the bracer, and Altair wasn’t moving fast enough --

    Malik watched in stunned horror as the blade came down just above the Master Assassin’s elbow. Bellows of pain echoed throughout the stone chamber as Altair fell to his knees. It seemed to take eons for the Templar to pull back their blade, and in the same slow pace, raise it again, this time to kill the wounded eagle.

Malik barely registered his own hand moving, first rising to the pouch at his shoulder, then flying outward. Two of the sharp-edged knives hit home, one in the chest, the other in the neck. Not waiting to watch as the Templar fell, he retrieved their prize, haphazardly stuffing it into his bag. He scrambled down the scaffolding, nearly losing his footing in his haste.

Altair hadn’t moved by the time Malik reached him. He was still kneeling, head bowed, clutching his wounded arm. The sword had cut deep, and blood flowed heavily between his fingers.

But he was alive. Malik walked past him, focusing instead on the crumpled figure lying at the foot of the ledge.

There was blood. Some of it was from the fallen Templars, some of it was from injuries caused by the fall -- but still more than those could account for.

Kadar wasn’t making any sound. His chest was completely still, and Malik observed with a sinking heart the dark stain that had spread around a wound there.

    Despite what Altair had said, Kadar was dead.

Rage, burning and irrational, overtook the sadness. Altair had promised to protect Kadar and had failed. It had been Altair's idea in the first place to bring the inexperienced journeyman-- had he really never considered the potential consequences? The dangers?

Malik tried to rein in his anger. They had not been expecting this many Templars, and who could've known the masonry was unstable? And how much of this was really anger at his brother's death, and not just his long-standing hatred ( _jealousy_ , a quiet voice whispered, but he shoved it aside) of the cocky Master Assassin?

But at the same time, it had been Altair’s idea to bring Kadar. Malik tried to refuse, tried to forbid it, but of course, he was ignored.  His brother practically worshiped Altair and, while not as stubborn as his idol, was very close. In the end, it had been up to Al Mualim to approve or disapprove of the team...and here they were. The rage swelled again, and he found himself thinking Altair could just stay here and rot.

But the Templars were coming. He could hear them in the distance, and he knew they would not just kill Altair, no. They would capture him, torture him, and once they’d gotten all the information they could out of him, then they would kill him. Altair was a stubborn and strong-willed man, but Malik had no illusions that he could not be broken. To leave him here would be to endanger the Brotherhood. But escaping with both a corpse and an invalid would be...problematic.

The Templars were getting closer. Malik leaned down and gently kissed his brother’s forehead, as he had done many times when they were much younger. Silently he apologized, both for what had happened and what he had to do.

Altair still hadn’t moved at all. Panic seeped in with the rage and the sadness. What if Altair had gone into shock? What if, while Malik was occupied with the corpse of his dead brother, Altair had already died?

He pushed those thoughts down. “Altair, we have to leave.”

For a moment, there was silence. The panic began to rise in Malik’s throat. How would he explain to Al Mualim that his greatest pupil had died of something so simple as a wounded arm?

But then, finally, came a response. “You go. I’m useless to anyone like this.”

“The Templars are returning. We have to leave now before the city’s put on alert, so we can make it back to the bureau.”

“Let them come. You have the treasure. It only matters that you escape.”

The flat tone of Altair’s voice was even more terrifying than his deadly calm before and after a fight. Malik had never heard him speak like this. Was the great eagle of Masyaf giving up?

“Altair, if I leave you behind, they’ll torture you. I won’t risk the Brotherhood being compromised. Now, you’re either coming of your own free will, or I am carrying you, and so help me if I have to carry you--”

But Altair was already on his feet, clutching his injured arm and moving towards the high gateway that had previously supported their prize. Malik followed close behind, urging him onwards, glancing behind them as the sounds of approaching Templars grew steadily louder.

Their escape was slow-going. They had to stop and hide many times to avoid detection, and Altair nearly collapsed twice. But they made it to their horses just after nightfall, and there were no signs of the Templars.

Malik eyed Altair with great concern. He had bound the wound with a ragged strip torn from his robes, but that wouldn’t be enough. They needed to get to the bureau for proper medical attention -- but they were already outside of Jerusalem’s high walls, far from the gates. He could hear the alarm bells ringing loud and clear as the soldiers searched the city for the escaped Assassins.

That left only Masyaf, a journey of two days at the least -- much longer, if they chose to stop and rest. It was a dangerous choice to make, but was it any safer than trying to sneak the injured Altair back into the city?

Altair stood expressionless next to his horse, still clutching his injured arm. Malik watched from next to his own horse. “...Altair, we need to get moving.”

“I can’t ride with my arm like this.” His voice still had that terrifying flat tone.

“You can’t afford to be stubborn now, Altair!” Malik heard the panic and rage creeping into his voice, but he was too tired to stop it. “If you can’t ride on your own, you’ll have to ride with me. The Templars will find this exit sooner or later, and we can’t afford to have them on our trail. We need to create distance.” Silently he added, _and get you back to Masyaf for treatment._

Altair stood silently, head bowed. Malik had never seen him looking so defeated, and decided he never wanted to again. There was just something...wrong about it. He tore his eyes way, focusing instead on mounting his horse.

When he looked again, Altair was there, head still bowed and uninjured arm extended. Malik gave his own arm, and braced himself as Altair put his weight on it. The way he mounted the horse was less than graceful, and he jarred his injured arm in the process. Blood blossomed on the makeshift bandages, but he made no sound. He settled on the back of the saddle, hooking his thumb into Malik’s belt, and looping a length of the sash around his injured arm.

Malik paused briefly to glance at the horse they were leaving behind. It carried nothing, save a bedroll and some provision pouches; things that could be more easily replaced than a dead Master Assassin. Once certain the injured man was securely seated behind him, he spurred the horse on.

They stopped only once, to replace their exhausted horse. They rode even through the night, braving narrow and rocky paths. One misstep would send them tumbling to their deaths, and then the Templar’s treasure would be lost forever.

Several times, Malik felt Altair begin to slip. Each time, the injured Assassin tightened his grip. Soon, his arm was almost fully around Malik’s waist, and the sash was tightly knotted about his forearm. If he fell, Malik would be dragged down with him, and only god knew how that would end.

But Altair did not fall, and they rode on to Masyaf.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some chapters I will be able to take lines from the game and use them in.  
> This is definitely not one of those chapters.

The sun was high in the sky when they finally reached the gates, galloping past guards and civilians alike. They dismounted as quickly as possible, and Malik viewed Altair's blood-crusted sleeve with dismay.

“Altair, you need to go see the healers. I can make the report to Al Mualim--”

“No. I must explain my actions to him myself.” He had his head held high, mouth set in a proud line; the rest of his face was hidden in the shadow of his hood. Malik knew he had to be in great pain, and that infection would set into the wound if it was not treated soon -- may have set in already, in fact. But he also knew the man Altair was, and knew he would be unable to change his mind. So he simply stepped aside so the Master Assassin could lead the way.

They moved quickly and quietly, sliding through groups of civilians like ghosts. No one said a word; they were used to the white-robed killers in their midst, and had seen their fair share of blood-soaked victors. It was only the guards who took notice of the two ascending towards the fortress, noting of their disheveled appearance and lack of a third. Malik glimpsed one slipping off to the hidden ways that linked the village and the fortress. Altair gave no sign of having noticed, and Malik said nothing.

There were two hooded guards waiting for them at the gate, and one extended a hand towards Altair. “Master Altair, we have notified the healers of your injury. If you would please follow-”

Altair pushed his hand away and continued up the slope to the fortress. Malik sighed, and rested his hand briefly on the guard’s shoulder as he passed.

“I will make sure he sees them. Please tell them he will be there in just a moment.” The guard nodded and slipped off towards the infirmary, and Malik pressed on.

Altair was already standing before Al Mualim’s table when Malik arrived, his head bowed, cradling his left arm. Al Mualim was facing away from him, looking out the window that opened over the gardens behind the fortress.

Malik stood straight and silent next to Altair, waiting for Al Mualim to speak. A strange tension hung in the air.

Al Mualim’s voice broke the silence like a crack of thunder. “Malik, where is your brother?”

Altair began to answer, but Malik cut him off. “Kadar was...careless, Al Mualim. He did not watch his footing, and the ledge under his feet was unstable. We were unable to get to him before the Templars did.”

“Then you failed your mission?” There was no audible anger.

“...No, sir. Altair ordered me to go retrieve the artifact while he went to Kadar’s aid.”

“Is that so…” Al Mualim’s tone was thoughtful, free of any signs of anger. At last, he turned. His eyes drifted to Altair’s wounded arm. “Altair, have you been to see the healers?”

“...No, Al Mualim. I wanted to make my report first.”

“An understandable, yet foolish decision. Go now. Someone will come to record your report later.”

“But, Al Mua--”

“Now, Altair.”

The master assassin bowed his head and left. As he descended the stairs, he stumbled, and a nearby guard reached out for him. Malik watched until the two vanished out of sight, only turning away as the mentor began speaking again.

“My apologies, Al Mualim. I was not listening.”

“It is understandable. You have been through much.” The mentor had once more turned away. “I thank you for returning Altair to us. Had it been his choice, he likely would’ve stayed behind, and faced a worse fate than Kadar.” There was pity in the old man’s voice. “Kadar’s loss must weigh heavily on you. Take peace that he died in service to our Brotherhood, and as such, died with honor.”

Malik hadn’t thought of Kadar since leaving the Temple. He’d been so focused on getting back to Masyaf, he’d let it slip from his mind. Now, with the mentor’s words, sorrow crashed over him, threatening to fell him with its force. “...Thank you, Al Mualim. I only wish I had been able to bring him home.” He didn’t let the thought continue. Younger brothers were supposed to bury and mourn their older brothers, not the other way around.

“Two live assassins is worth more than two dead. Your choice was hard, but it was the right one.” There was silence, and Malik followed the mentor’s gaze through the grilled window to the messenger birds that darted through the skies.

After some time, Al Mualim spoke again. “So you retrieved the artifact?”

Malik started, then reached into his bag. “Yes, Al Mualim -- here.” Carefully, he removed the golden artifact, silently thanking the heavens that it had not gotten lost or broken in their frantic escape. He placed it on the mentor’s desk, then stepped back.

Al Mualim turned, regarding the Templar’s treasure with a face that was as unreadable as the clear blue sky. Altair was perhaps the only one who could understand what the mentor was thinking, as Malik was perhaps the only one who could understand Altair, present company aside.

"This will set the Templars back quite a bit. I thank you, Malik. You have brought us one step closer to ending this conflict."

Malik inclined his head. "I do not deserve such praise, Al Mualim. Without Altair, we would never have succeeded." That much he would begrudge the foolish, prideful man.

The mentor looked thoughtful. "Perhaps that is true." He began to turn away again. "Go see to our wounded brother, and then rest. Return here after the evening meal. There is something I wish to discuss with you then."

"...Yes, Al Mualim." Malik turned, eyes on the stone floor. As he descended the steps, erratic drips of blood caught his attention. He found himself wondering if he had really returned with two live assassins, then forced the thought from his mind. Altair was stubborn. He would not die from something as superficial as a wounded arm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, we have a chapter or two with mild confusion as to what should be going on, because I've effectively eliminated de Sable and his men following wounded Malik back to Masyaf.  
> Stay tuned.


	3. Chapter 3

The fortress was silent as Malik made his way to the infirmary. It had been a fine day, and the instructors had their novices doing training routines out in the courtyard. The remaining journeymen and full assassins were either in other cities on missions , or had been placed on guard duty to ensure de Sable's men had not followed Malik and Altair as they fled.

The silence made him uneasy. He would prefer to be in the courtyards, lost in the clash of practice sword fights and shouting of novices and instructors alike. Somewhere he could drown out his thoughts.

But he couldn’t exactly just ignore Al Mualim, and he was somewhat worried about how Altair was faring. The wound had been serious, possibly even deadly if infection had set in.

They’d never really been friends, but they’d always had an amicable sort of rivalry. It was only natural for that sort of relationship to occur between the best and second-best. They’d help each other train, give each other advice in the areas where one was strong while the other was weak. They learned how to read each other, finding all the other’s tells in and outside of the sparring ring. They were almost closer than they would be if they were friends because of this. It certainly made them a formidable pair when on missions.

At least, they had been, before Altair became the youngest ever Master Assassin. It was an honor, certainly, and Altair had every right to be proud of his accomplishments -- but it wasn’t just pride that had made Malik come to detest him so. Altair had become arrogant and stopped listening to Malik; he took greater risks for lesser rewards, and had all but completely abandoned the planning process for his kills.

Honestly, Malik had been waiting for him to get hurt like this for a while now. It might sound sadistic, but he’d just known it would happen eventually. He’d hoped when it did, it would knock some sense into Altair. He just hadn’t expected it to be this bad.

He was apprehensive as he approached the heavy wood doors that lead to the main room of the infirmary. It occurred to him that Altair may have been taken into the surgery already, but he wasn’t going to just wait and find out later, when later could end up being tomorrow.

They must have been expecting him, because a tired-looking healer slipped between the doors before he could even begin to open them. “Malik. You must be here about your partner.”

“...Yes, I’m here about Altair. Did we return in time?”

“Barely.” His voice was exhausted. Malik found himself wondering if there had been another rash of journeymen attempting leaps of faith before their time and breaking limbs again. “Another day and the infection would’ve spread too far for us to effectively handle it. As it is, we’ll have to amputate the arm.”

Malik winced. He could still remember the last time they’d had to perform an amputation. The screams had echoed through the fortress, and some of the novices had nightmares for weeks. The man hadn’t survived the procedure.

“What are the odds?”

The healer looked apologetic. “Honestly, we don’t know. We’re fairly confident he’ll survive, but…”

“...He’ll never be an assassin again.”

“...No.” The healer’s expression remained apologetic.

An assassin’s body was his main tool, his one valuable possession. If it was damaged like this, there was nothing to be done for it. Some could become scholars or rafiks; but Altair was not one of these. It wasn’t that he wasn’t qualified-- he was deceptively smart, even able to speak and write in several languages -- but more that he didn’t have the appropriate temperament. He was impatient, stubborn, and had been known to fly into a rage, all long before he ever became Master.

(It didn't occur now that those same terms could be applied to Malik. He was slightly more patient, yes, if only because of Kadar; who knew how his temperament would change with that influence gone?)

In all likelihood, if Altair survived this, he would be reduced to civilian status, and for him, that would be worse than death.

Malik thanked the healer and quickly left. He wanted to be as far from the infirmary as possible before the inevitable screaming started. Altair was strong, yes...but he wasn’t that strong. Their enemies might call him a demon, and the novices may worship him like a god, but he was only human. Only human, after all.

The thought of the novices’ reverence jarred something loose, and the grief came crashing down with the force of a pallet of bricks. Kadar had been one of the ones who hero-worshipped Altair. And in the end, his hero had failed him. His hero had let him die.

Malik leaned heavily against the cold stone, pressing his hand over his eyes. Anger and grief warred in his heart: anger at Altair, and grief at his loss. Grief tried to argue that it was inevitable, that surely Altair had not meant for Kadar to die, surely he had done all he could. Anger spat back that Altair had brought Kadar in the first place, and that the blame was on him and him alone.

And then he heard the scream.

There was only one, and it was more like a bellow than an actual scream. His stomach churned as he thought about what that might mean, and he tried to force the grisly images out of his mind.

Something else bubbled up between the anger and grief, something tied to the bellow of pain. Something almost like guilt.

Maybe he should have let Altair die, instead. Maybe he should have turned sooner, warned him sooner. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Instead this had happened. Instead he’d relegated Altair to this fate almost worse than death.

Malik felt like he was going to be sick. It was too much, all the anger and the guilt and the grief. There was too much happening, too fast.

In the silence of the nearly empty fortress, he sank to the floor and began to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I had to describe how writing this chapter and the next chapter went, it would probably be "tossing the appropriate emotions into a blender, then force-feeding the mixture to Malik and seeing what happened."  
> And honestly, I probably could've done much worse.  
> Next up we have Malik's evening meeting with Al Mualim, and whatever will come of that.  
> I sincerely hope I'm not venturing too far out of character with this...


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna go ahead and post this chapter to maybe motivate myself to finish chapter 5 ahaha oops.

The guards didn’t spare him a second glance as he slipped into the fortress’s library. In all his years, Malik didn’t think he’d ever actually seen them stop anyone from entering the structure. Perhaps they were there more for Al Mualim than the actual library. The idle thought was in and out of Malik’s mind before he even stepped over the threshold.

He felt a great weariness on his frame as he ascended the steps. He had tried to rest, but this was not something that could be recovered from in a few hour’s sleep. This would take months and months of healing, and even then, it would never be fully alleviated. He had lost all that was left of his family, after all. Even if loss was to be expected in a family of assassins, it was still a lot to bear.

He was silent as he approached the table. Al Mualim was once more turned away, gazing out the grilled window at the rapidly darkening sky. There was nothing to do but wait to be addressed.

“I was told you did not join your brothers for the evening meal.”

Malik blinked, mildly startled at Al Mualim’s apparent concern. “...No, I did not.”

“It’s understandable. Much has happened, in such a short period of time. You need time to rest, time to heal.” Al Mualim turned, and Malik almost thought he saw pity on the old man’s face. “But I’m afraid you will not have that time, Malik. I do not wish to sound callous, considering the situation, but the Crusaders will soon know their prize has been stolen. We must act quickly to protect ourselves, to protect our land.”

“...Forgive me, Al Mualim, but I don’t understand.”

“Altair was the last Master Assassin we had here at Masyaf. The others are too far away for them to be of any immediate assistance.” The old man shook his head. “I understand the poor timing. I had wanted to wait until you were ready, but that luxury is no longer available to us.”

“...Sir?”

Al Mualim reached on the table and picked up something Malik hadn’t noticed before. The dying light of the sun danced across the decorated metal of the bracer, and he recognized it for what it was: a hidden blade.

Malik starred in shock as the mentor continued. “This honor would have come to you eventually, Malik. This is something you earned, however it may seem. You have proven yourself time and time again. I do not lie when I say that I wish it were given under different different circumstances.”

Malik reached towards the blade, then hesitated. “Forgive me, Al Mualim, but I have had no training with the hidden blade. Even Altair took a month to master it.”

The mentor’s face was unreadable. “Your skill has always been equal to Altair’s, and I have faith you would be able to master it quickly. It is your choice whether or not you take it.”

That was surprising. “My...choice?”

“Yes. The mantle of Master Assassin has always been a choice. There is much that must be sacrificed, and not all are willing or able to sacrifice it.” There was a kindness in Al Mualim’s voice. “You can continue the missions without taking the blade, but either way you must continue. Your Order needs you, Malik.”

Malik hesitated once more, then placed his hand on the blade. “I will take it.” He had already sacrificed so much to the Assassins. What was one finger?

The old man nodded, and Malik had the distinct feeling that no other answer had been expected. “We shall hold the ceremony tomorrow. For now, take the blade, and rest.”

Malik took the blade, and Al Mualim turned away once more, signaling that the other could leave. The scholars and guards were beginning to light the candles, and the air was growing cool as night came at last.

He felt oddly numb as he walked back to the wing of the fortress where senior assassins without families made their homes. The blade was light in his hand, and somehow that didn’t seem to fit the death it was capable of dealing. Some small voice in the back of his mind posed a question: _What if this is Altair’s blade?_

Bile rose in his throat and he nearly dropped it. He was disgusted by the thought, and with himself for the thought. The ornate designs of the armor were clearly different from Altair’s. Altair’s would have had evidence of wear and the passage of time. It was not Altair’s. It could not be Altair’s. He’d rather cut off his own arm than go so far as to take Altair’s most prized weapon.

When he finally reached his own room, he dropped the blade onto the top of the chest that held the rest of his equipment. An honor, Al Mualim had called it. Something Malik had earned.

It didn’t feel like it. It felt like a hasty offer made because there was no other choice. It felt like Al Mualim had turned to Malik only because his star pupil was no longer an option. Perhaps it was as Al Mualim had said: an honor that would have been given eventually, forced sooner because of unfortunate events. Perhaps it really was just bad timing.

That would certainly be the preferable thing to believe. But so far as Malik knew, Al Mualim had never shown any interest in anyone aside from Altair. Even if it was true that Malik would have obtained this honor eventually, he had no doubt that whatever missions would be entrusted to him were originally meant for Altair.

He stripped out of his heavy robes, faintly registering that they were still the ones he had worn in the frantic escape from Jerusalem. They would have to be washed and mended. He set them aside, and sat heavily on his cot.

He needed to sleep. He did not want to sleep. Every time he closed his eyes he could see his brother’s pale, unmoving form, and the deep wound in Altair’s arm. He saw his father, leaving home for the last time, and promising to return. He saw everything he had lost because of the Order.

The mixed grief and anger returned, and the guilt was not far behind. The emotions roiled in his stomach, and he groaned sickly, falling back on the rough hay-stuffed pallet of his cot.

He’d wanted to be a Master Assasin since he was young. The Master Assassins were the elite, one of highest ranks available to members of the Order. It was a great honor, a great privilege.

His father had been a Master Assassin. He closed his eyes and he could see him, in his long white robes with the careful, ornate embroidery around the hems. It had been not too long after Kadar was born. He could remember one night, when he couldn’t sleep, and he heard his mother crying. He could remember his father’s voice, soft and reassuring. _I do this for you. I do this for our sons. I will always return to you. Always._

Rarely did Master Assassins have families. The Order had to come first, before their own life, before their family’s lives. It seemed so very unfair that Al Mualim would ask that of someone who already had two children.

Malik didn’t have a wife, let alone children. He was fairly certain he never would, taking up this mantle. Altair certainly hadn’t been planning on having a family.

Altair. His father had been a Master Assassin, too. Executed by the Saracens as the result of a mission gone terribly wrong.

No. He didn’t want to think about that. He didn’t want to think about anything. He wanted to sleep and not see his brother’s cooling body, not see the deep, bleeding gash in Altair’s arm. He wanted to forget about everything.

He didn’t know how long he lay there, half on and half off the cot. He didn’t know when he finally fell asleep.  He only knew that when he woke, the morning sun was shining through the thin slit of a window, and someone was knocking on the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy, this is just a lot of emotional drama so far. That was not the plan. One can guarantee that Altair wouldn't have had THIS much trouble.  
> Also, I'm aware Malik is loyal to the creed and the Mentor, but I have my doubts that he wouldn't feel like this title wasn't being given to him simply because Altair was. Somewhat permanently out of commission.  
> Good news is the next chapter gets back on track, wooo! Or at least starts too.


	5. Chapter 5

The ceremony was tradition, and nothing more. Reading the oath before the rest of the Order had no real purpose. They all knew the Creed. They all lived by it--or should, at least. This was just reinforcing what was already known: that a Master Assassin would dedicate his entire life to the Creed, to the Order. Malik had already chosen to do that a long time ago.

It was the sacrificing of the finger that mattered. Malik stood straight and did not flinch as the blade sliced through first flesh, then bone. It was painful, sure. But he could handle pain.

When it was over, and what remained of his finger was carefully wrapped in a soft cloth bandage, he walked through the echoing stone corridors to the infirmary.

The same healer that had been there the day before greeted him again. “You want to see Altair, I trust.”

Malik just nodded. His mouth felt too dry to speak.

“I’m afraid he’s currently under sedation. This is a rather...delicate time. He’ll need a few days to recover. Perhaps you could see him them.”

Malik didn’t know if he’d still be in Masyaf in a few days. He just nodded his thanks and left.

He didn’t think about where his feet were carrying him until he walked smack-dab into another assassin. He muttered an apology and stepped to the side, but the assassin grabbed his arm before he could leave.

“Wait, Malik.” The voice was familiar, and when Malik looked, he recognized Rauf’s features under the instructor’s hood he wore.

“Rauf. I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.”

The tall man shook his head and released Malik’s arm. “It’s alright. A lot’s happened. I just want to offer my condolences.”

“Most people have been wanting to congratulate me.” He laughed bitterly. “Mostly novices and journeymen who have yet to realize what it actually means to be an assassin.”

“They do not know what true loss is.” Rauf shrugged. “They believe they have their entire lives ahead of them. They will learn soon enough.”

Malik supposed Rauf would know. He was an instructor, after all. “And what if soon enough comes a bit too late?”

Rauf just shrugged and shook his head, as if to say  _ That’s just what happens _ . “Listen, Malik, if you need someone to talk to, you can just come find me. I can make us up a pot of tea. It’ll be like old times.”

Malik offered a faint smile. “I’ll try to, Rauf.” He turned to leave.

“Oh, and please, come for the evening meal. Abbas is just terrible without someone to strike him down.”

Malik laughed -- a rough, but genuine sound. “Well, Rauf, that’s what you get for having a reputation as such a softie.”

“We can’t all be you or Altair, Malik.”

Malik just shook his head. “I’ll see you later, Rauf. Maybe I’ll come by the training ring this afternoon.”

It was Rauf’s turn to shake his head. “One minute you accuse the journeymen of ignorance, the next you offer to willingly be among them.”

“Well, they need to learn from someone.”

“And which of us here is the instructor?” He sounded more amused than anything. “I’m demonstrating counter-attacks today. I expect you to come and help me demonstrate.”

“Well, I guess I can’t refuse an opportunity to let them see a Master Assassin in action.”

“Great!” Rauf clapped Malik on the shoulder, grinning broadly. “Come to the main courtyard after the noon meal. We’ll give the students a show to remember.”

As the instructor left, Malik silently prayed the show wouldn’t end with him on his back. Rauf was a skilled swordsman, better than Altair, better than Malik. He had become an instructor simply because it was where he felt most comfortable. But Malik had no doubt that under the right circumstances, Rauf could be twice the Master Assassin Altair had been. Altair worked on brute force; Rauf worked on skill and finesse.

It wouldn’t be a very good start to his career as Master Assassin if he wasn’t able to end the spar in a tie, at the very least. He was fairly certain he’d be able to hold his own. Especially if Rauf stuck to his demonstration and didn’t insist on a sparring match.

Before he realized it, his feet had carried him to the library, and to Al Mualim’s desk. He was mildly surprised none of the guards had stopped him; he certainly hadn’t been summoned, and he had no business with the mentor. He began to turn and leave, an apology on his lips, when Al Mualim looked up from the papers on his desk.

“Ah, Malik. I was going to send for you, but I see providence has brought you regardless.” For a moment, he almost looked amused. And then it faded as he stood, shuffling the papers until he found one he was looking for. “I had wished to discuss these missions you will be undertaking with you. But slightly more pressing matters have been brought to my attention.”

The old man paced out from behind the table, arms folded behind his back. “Crusader scouts have been spotted not a day’s ride from here. Specifically, Templar scouts.”

Malik blinked. Crusader scouts weren’t exactly common, but they weren’t really anything new. Templar scouts, however. “De Sable’s men? Did he follow us back?”

“No one can say. But that is no current concern, unless they discover the pass.” He approached the railing, gazing impassively over the library. “However, we have reason to suspect a traitor in our midst.”

“A traitor?” It should have been shocking. But only two years ago, one of the guards to the city had revealed himself a traitor, bringing the crusaders into Masyaf and taking Al Mualim hostage. Fortunately, Altair had arrived in time to save the day.

He certainly wasn’t in shape to do that now.

“Do we know who he is?”

Al Mualim shook his head, slowly. “We have suspicions, but no proof.” The old man sighed, and began the return walk to his desk. “I believe your skills are well suited to this task.”

“You wish for me to find out who the traitor is?”

“Yes. I wish for everything to be handled as discreetly as possible. I would prefer for this not to turn into a witch hunt.”

Malik nodded. The betrayal had left its scars on the Brotherhood, and they had yet to heal. Many still bore suspicions against some of their brothers -- especially those not native to the Levant region, or from Crusader-controlled territories.

The mentor’s attention returned to the papers on his desk. “I expect a report after this is dealt with. You may leave; I believe Rauf is waiting for you.”

Malik was surprised, though he really shouldn’t have been: this was a den of assassins. Next to nothing was kept secret when the very walls had ears. Malik gave a slight bow at the waist, and turned, descending the stairs.

The shift from cool and shadowy library to hot and sunny courtyard was far from sudden, but the light that slanted into his eyes under his hood still made him blink. When his vision cleared he saw that Rauf was indeed waiting for him -- as was most of the journeyman population of the fortress.

Malik crossed his arms as he approached the ring. “What happened to this being a demonstration for your class, Rauf?”

The instructor shrugged, and Malik caught sight of a grin before he pulled his face mask back up. “Well, you know how word spreads in a place like this. They’re all eager to see the new Master Assassin in action.”

Malik sighed and hefted himself over the ring’s wooden barrier. “Well, guess I can’t afford to disappoint.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmmm. I need to work on writing longer chapters.  
> Sorry if this chapter seems awkward, I'm just trying to get the story back on track.  
> Unfortunately it seems like I work best by writing and then leaving it alone for two years with sporadic edits and I can't afford to go by that method eheh.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last, we arrive at the first mission of the game...aka the tutorial mission I might have been able to get away with skipping, but I didn't feel like it.  
> Finding a transcript for the game was a lot harder than I thought it would be. However, pretty much all dialogue in the mission segment of this chapter is adapted from the game.

Malik reached down to help Rauf stand as the watching journeymen cheered and applauded. He spoke just low enough that only the swordsman would hear: “Thanks for taking it easy on me.”

Rauf laughed, muffled by his mask. “Well, you owe me one. We’ll give it another month before I start putting you on your ass again.”

“Did you ever do that to Altair?” The crowd of journeymen parted as the two senior assassins left the ring.

“Nah. But then again, he rarely came to the sparring ring after reaching master. The last time I remember actually facing him was…” Rauf paused as he put the dulled practice swords on the weapon rack at the edge of the courtyard. “I can’t even remember, honestly.”

Malik sighed, then cracked a smile. “Remember the time he and I challenged you at the same time? Everyone said it was the only way anyone was going to ever beat you in the ring.”

“Oh, no, not anyone, just you and Altair.” Rauf pulled the mask down again, a soft smile on his face. “I may be the top swordsman, but there’s no one who could even get close to you and Altair.” The smile faded. “...Well, I guess it’s just you, now.”

“...Yeah.” Malik sighed, leaning back against the wall, watching the journeymen who were still milling about. “Just me, left to fill Altair’s shoes.”

“Malik, you earned this.” Rauf’s tone was earnest. “You’re just as good as Altair. Just because it’s happening now doesn’t mean it’s any less of an honor.”

“Al Mualim already has missions planned out.” He rubbed a hand across his face. “If Altair hadn’t been wounded, they’d be his.”

“And you’d be preaching about how you could do much better than him and nitpicking every little flaw.” Rauf shook his head. “Missions aren’t meant for specific people, Malik. You know that. Al Mualim just sends whoever he thinks is most qualified. It’s an honor, Malik. Under other circumstances, you would realize it.”

Malik turned away from Rauf’s pitying gaze. “...I guess you have a point.”

“Remember, Malik, I’m here if you need to talk. I know what you’re going through.”

Malik sighed. Rauf had lost his own younger brother in the Crusader attack two years ago. He would understand the grief, but Malik didn’t know about the rest of it. “Sorry, Rauf. There’s just too much happening at the same time. But that’s how it always is, I guess.” The thought of the attack reminded Malik of the job he’d been given. “Listen, Rauf, I have to go. I’ll see you at dinner, but there’s...something Al Mualim asked me to do.”

Rauf nodded, glancing around for eavesdropping journeymen. “Is it related to the Crusader scouts spotted nearby?”

“...It might be. Who all knows about the scouts?”

“The senior assassins. We’re keeping it quiet from the novices and journeymen.” He shook his head. “I never thought that we might see two attacks in one lifetime. Masyaf is supposed to be safe.”

Malik pushed off from the wall. “Nowhere is safe when there are assassins. It might as well be one of the tenets of the Creed.”

Rauf called after him as he walked away: “And you better be there for dinner tonight! I won’t be responsible for whatever happens if Abbas continues to go unchecked!”

Malik rolled his eyes and gave an idle wave of his hand as he began down the steep slope that lead into Masyaf proper.

The guards eyed him as he passed, but they maintained their relaxed posture. Malik kept his own posture loose and non-threatening, inclining his head slightly to one of the guards he passed as he entered the market square. These men were assassins, some of whom Malik had even trained with; but their duty was to protect the city, even against its assassin co-inhabitants. They wouldn’t hesitate to subdue Malik if he engaged in any suspicious behavior, though punishment would ultimately be left up to Al Mualim.

Malik sighed as he sat himself on the bench between two of the local women. They spared him only a brief glance before turning their attention elsewhere. These people had learned long ago to ignore the assassins living amongst them.

The market made a good place to gather information; it was the hub of activity in the city, frequented by assassins and civilians alike. At this time, activity in the square was mostly civilians, and activity by the well caught Malik’s attention.

He watched the two men for a few seconds, reading their body language. One was tense, while the other seemed more relaxed. He leaned forward, straining to hear.

“...I know what I saw. Masun received a letter from someone in assassin’s robes -- but their weapons weren’t assassin, and I saw chainmail under their robes. He’s working with the Crusaders!”

“Then you must tell Al Mualim!”

“I can’t! Masun does not work alone. Someone inside the fortress is helping him.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I’ve seen him exchanging letters in the past. The basket weaver carries them.”

“But that is no reason to remain silent.”

“Aha! But I saw Masun give this letter to the weaver without opening it. The letter was not for him, but for the traitor in the fortress!”

“Then speak to the weaver! He can name Masun’s accomplice.”

“He’s disappeared, for fear of being drawn into this.”

“Perhaps he’s hiding in one of his own baskets!”

Malik leaned back, removing his attention from the men. Masun... he knew the name, but not the man. He was a civilian guardsman, often tasked with watching the gate. If he was working with the Templars, it could spell disaster for Masyaf. This was most worrying news, paired with the scouts sighted nearby.

He stood from the bench, idly dusting his robes. He knew where the basket weaver made his shop, on the second tier of the city; with luck, he would still have the letter on his person.

He slipped easily between the throngs of people, idly slipping his fingers against coin pouches and the edges of pockets. He didn’t take anything, but still silently marveled at how oblivious those he passed were. Pickpocketing was an art that required dexterity and a certain amount of patience, and one that could pay off under appropriate circumstances. Altair had never liked it as a method of information gathering, and honestly, neither did Malik, but in some cases it was the only way.

He slowed as he approached where the basket maker made his shop, stopping a good ten feet away. There was a woman there, arguing with the craftsman.

“Please, just one! We have nothing to store our grain in!”

“I...I can’t right now. I’m busy.” He was clearly agitated, eyes flickering about like a trapped animal. Malik took a step back, concealing himself in a group of nearby civilians.

“Is this about the letter?”

“W-what letter?”

“The letter you received when I got here. Bad news?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Malik snorted, and the civilians cast worried glances his way. He paid them no mind and continued listening. “Listen, I'll see what I can do, but please, I need to be alone right now. Come back later.”

The woman sounded weary when she replied. “As you wish.”

Malik watched as the woman left, slipping into the steady stream of civilians. By the time the basket weaver entered the flow himself, Malik was close enough to slip his fingers into the man’s coin purse and remove the letter without being noticed. As soon as it was safely in his hands, he stepped out of the flow of  traffic, slipping into the small alleyway between two buildings.

The letter had to be from Masun, written to his accomplice within the fortress. It gave a meeting location in one of Masyaf’s main courtyards. The accomplice was not named, but Malik wouldn’t expect that. If the man really was an assassin, he’d definitely know better.

As he ascended the sloping pathways towards the courtyard, he became aware of someone shouting, a man. As he got closer, the words became more clear.

“I see the way you look at me. Hear the things you say! A traitor! I am not a traitor! It's Al Mualim who's betrayed us! You'll see! Soon, all your eyes will be opened to the truth! We stand upon the threshold between this world and the new one! A better place where all might live as equals! But men, like Al Mualim, would see this dream destroyed!  Give up your wicked ways. Rise up against the madman of Masyaf! See through his lies!”

It was Masun, raving about something Malik couldn’t even vaguely begin to understand. That he would bare his treason where the entire town could see was certainly surprising -- but no doubt they had all arrived at the conclusion that he was a madman, raving about mad things. Malik wondered how long he might have gone undetected, then decided he didn’t want to think about that.

Masun’s shouting was agitating nearby civilians, and Malik watched as a grey-hooded guard approached. The guard grabbed Masun’s arm, and said something Malik couldn’t here. Masun shook them off and stalked away, pushing roughly through the groups of civilians. Malik followed at a safe distance.

It was over quickly. When Masun leaned over the fountain to wash his hands, Malik gave a quick shove, momentarily pushing his head under water. Before he could re-orient himself, he was yanked back to his feet, and pushed against the wall with a knife to his throat. His eyes were wide with terror.

“Enough! I yield, I yield!”

“Speak quickly, then; I have no time for games.” Malik added weight to the knife, a thin red line appearing on Masun’s skin. “Who do you serve? What treason are you plotting?”

“We serve the Templars. You should to. Their cause is just.”

The blade pressed harder. “We?”

Masun gasped, tipping his head back, trying to get away from the knife. “Jamal. He told me of their plans. Asked me to…”

“Asked you to  _ what _ , Masun?!”

“He asked me to open the gate, when the time had come! Asked me to let the Templars in!”

Malik snarled. “You’d betray us? We, who called you ‘brother’, who kept you safe from harm?”

“I do only what I believe is right. And if you must kill me for it... so be it. I am not afraid to die.”

Malik removed the knife, but kept a tight grip on Masun’s tunic. “Your fate is not for me to decide. It's Al Mualim who will judge.” He glanced at the entrance to the secluded courtyard, seeing a familiar face shadowed by a grey hood. “Ah, Abbas. Care to help me take this traitor up to the fortress?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 7 might be a week late or so, since I haven't even started it yet. Things have been getting kind of hectic lately, and next month I'm going to be moving back to school, and I'm not 100% sure what my school schedule will be like.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is later than expected! Life got kinda hectic, eheh.  
> It's also waaay shorter than I'd prefer but too late to do anything about that.

They carried Masun up the library steps, Malik holding one arm, Abbas holding the other. Neither of them spoke, and the man between them seemed to have enough sense to stay quiet.

They dragged Masun before Al Mualim’s desk, and Malik gave Abbas a nod of dismissal to return to his post. He did not, instead narrowing his eyes at Malik and continuing to stand on Masun’s other side. It was only when Al Mualim turned and fixed him with a hard look that he left, glaring back over his shoulder when he thought Al Mualim wasn’t looking.

Malik couldn’t help but think how petty Abbas’ hatred was. Once they had had an amicable sort of relationship, even after his friendship with Altair had crashed and burned; then, when he became a guard, he began to despise pretty much everyone who had stayed on the course of assassin, Altair and Malik being at the top of the list. Besides, why would he want to stay for Masun’s sentencing? Malik didn’t even want to stay. He wanted to go back to his room to rest and mourn, before there was no more time for either.

Al Mualim’s hard words were directed at the figure forced to kneel on the stone floor. “You stand accused of betraying our brotherhood and opening the way for our enemies. How do you answer to these charges?”

There was an edge of fear to Masun’s voice, but he held his head defiantly high. “I deny nothing! My only regret is that you found me before our work could be carried out --”

Malik’s hand fell heavily on the man’s head. “You will show respect in Al Mualim’s presence--”

Al Mualim raised a hand. “Malik, stop.” His eyes remained on Masun. “I offer you one chance to repent, Masun. One chance to renounce the evil in your heart.”

“I have nothing to renounce! There is no evil in my heart, only truth! I will not repent.”

“Then you will die.” In a flash, the Mentor drew a silver blade from under his black robes, and Masun was dead, blood welling from the wound in his chest. Guards stepped from the side to remove the corpse, and one took Al Mualim’s bloodied blade.

“You did well, Malik.”

Malik looked away from the guards to find Al Mualim had returned to the space behind his desk. “Sir, what will become of the one who was helping him?”

“That remains to be seen. Some do ill out of ignorance or fear. These men can be saved. Others suffer from corrupted wills, their minds poisoned and twisted. These men must be destroyed. Soon enough we will shall see what sort Jamal is.”

Malik did not like the idea of waiting, but he supposed Al Mualim knew better. He gave a bow and turned to leave.

“Wait, Malik. There is something I wish to discuss with you.”

Malik stopped, and turned, but he remained to the side, eager to leave.

“I hold here a list. Nine names adorn it. Nine men who need to die. They are plague-bringers, war-makers. Their power and influence corrupts the land and ensure the Crusades continue. You will find them. Kill them. In doing so, you sow the seeds of peace.”

“It is an honor to be entrusted with this mission, Al Mualim.” The answer was automatic. His mind was elsewhere, on his recent loss, on his promise to join Rauf at the evening meal, on how weary he felt now.

“Your first mission will be in Damascus, a man named Tamir. He is a black market merchant, and he will be the first to fall.”

“When do you want me to leave?”

“You may have a few days to prepare. I doubt the crusaders will present as much a threat to us without Masun to open the gate for them. But if they do try, it will be soon, and I would prefer for you to be here.”

“Of course.” He gave another bow. “Is that all, Al Mualim?”

“Yes, you may leave, Malik. Take this time to rest and ready yourself, for the coming road is long.”

His only acknowledgement was a nod before he turned and descended the stairs, keeping his eyes straight ahead, purposefully ignoring the fresh blood splattering the stone steps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is gonna be events at the evening meal, and possibly an attempt by the Templars to attack Masyaf, and maybe some other stuff. After that we're gonna get back to the main missions.  
> Unfortunately I have no guarantee for when the next chapter will be posted because I'm getting ready to head back to school now, so regular updates are probably not going to be a thing. Sorry!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, I'm back. Sorry guys, I kinda lost motivation for a while...and then the quarter started and life got hectic.  
> This is a pretty short chapter, but I'm afraid it'll have to hold you since I'm not sure I'll be able to get anything else posted before the end of the quarter in two weeks.

The novices sat closest to the dining hall’s large doors, and they all fell silent as Malik entered. The sheer awe on their faces made him uncomfortable, and he strode past their tables without a second glance.

The journeymen did not fall silent, and somehow that was almost worse.

“Did you hear that he knocked down Instructor Rauf in the ring?”

“What! No, he couldn’t have--”

“I heard that he’s the only assassin who can go toe-to-toe with Altair in an all-out fight---”

He did his best to ignore their excited chatter and continued to the farthest table, where he sat next to Rauf with a heavy sigh. “Don’t they have better things to do than hero worship?”

Rauf laughed and clapped him on the back. “My friend, you and Altair are the only Masters named within their lifetime. Enjoy their awe while you can, next they’ll be trying to surpass you.”

“Surpass the great Master Assassin Malik Al-Sayf? Oh, never!” The mocking voice was hard not to recognize, and Rauf grimaced as he turned to face Abbas.

“For the last time, Abbas, would you shut up?”

“Oh, so now that he’s finally deigned to join us, I must be silent? I am not so easily cowed, unlike you, Rauf--”

“Abbas--”

Malik raised a hand. “No, no, Rauf, let him speak.” His voice was mild, but a hard edge hid beneath the calm tone. “I want to hear if he has legitimate criticism for me...or if he’s just spouting idle negativities as always.”

The room fell suddenly silent, and Abbas’ mouth opened and closed repeatedly, eyes wide. The overall impression was rather fish-like, and Malik felt no pity for the man.

Slowly he began to rise, the mild tone of his voice not wavering for a second. “Do you want to know why I’ve chosen to isolate myself these past few days?” Abbas shifted uncomfortably under his stare. “Do you?”

Abbas began to speak again, but Malik leaned across the table, grabbing the front of his robes and hissing, “I am in mourning, you blathering idiot. I lost my brother, the last of my family. I couldn’t even bring him home for a proper burial.” He could feel all eyes on him, and suddenly he felt sick. He wanted to leave, to run from the room and retreat to the safety of his chambers.

Instead he dropped Abbas, voice growing weary. “I would have thought you understood such loss, Abbas.” He sat heavily, forcing his eyes to the meal before him, willing his churning stomach to still.

Abbas remained half-standing, eyes wide in shock. After a few moments he turned and walked from the room, all eyes following his progress. The heavy door slammed behind the guardsman, and the sound reverberated in the silence.

Rauf sighed. “Well, that was eventful, wasn’t it?” His voice grew quiet. “You alright, Malik?”

Malik looked at his hands and saw they were shaking. He sighed, curling them into fists. “No. I don’t think I will be for a while.”

The hand that rested on his shoulder was heavy, but comforting. The corresponding voice was gentle, yet firm. “Malik, you have to talk to someone. Come see me tonight. If you don’t, I’ll come and see you.” There was a finality to his words, and Malik dimly thought that this was why Rauf had been instructor.

He felt numb as he shook his head, staring at his food. His appetite was gone, but Rauf’s concern was a heavy weight on his frame.

He ate every bit of it, despite the churning of his stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So as you can probably tell the next chapter is kinda gonna be more stuff about Malik dealing with everything happening all at the same time. After that there might be one more chapter before he rides off to Damascus to start his mission, but I haven't made a decision on that yet.  
> Sorry things are going so slow, I'm using the game as an outline but just working with events in the game makes stuff pretty boring, and I just love writing all this personal life stuff for some reason.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just a short update to let y'all know I'm still trying to work on this thing. This chapter was originally going to be quite a bit longer, but I lost my original outline and have had to make some adjustments to account for the new outline.

Malik groaned as the door opened, but didn’t sit up. “Rauf, are you not familiar with knocking?”

  
“Are you not familiar with locking your door?”

  
Malik froze, then slowly sat up to face the figure standing in the doorway. The black robes draped over his shoulders were unfamiliar, but the face, for once unshadowed the peaked hood, was easily recognizable.

  
Altair did not give Malik a chance to speak. “I’ve come to notify you that our partnership as Assassins has ended. I leave for Jerusalem at dawn tomorrow.”

  
“Jerusalem?” It was not a mission, could not be a mission, not when (He refused to think it, refused to look at Altair left side. He could not think it, could not look, could not lose his composure in front of this man, of all people.). The black robes, they were rafik robes, but the ornate designs spoke of something else-- “You’ve been appointed Dai?”

  
“Yes.” There was a haughtiness to his voice and expression, but his eyes were flat and hollow. “I understand that congratulations are in order for you as well, Master Assassin.”

  
“I do only what Al Mualim asks of me,and nothing more.”

  
“Oh, I’m quite sure that’s what it is.” He sounded unconvinced, and Malik gritted his teeth, resisting the urge to shout.

  
“I’ll leave you to make your own decisions, then. You always have.” The venom that seeped into his voice was unintentional, and he regretted it almost immediately as a faint look of hurt flashed across Altair’s bare face.

  
It was gone as soon as it came, however, and Malik was almost certain he imagined it. “Well, Brother, it will be as it was in the past, won’t it? Each of us keeping our own counsel and caring not for the thoughts of others.” He turned away, lifting his remaining hand in a gesture of farewell. “I wish you every bit of luck and strength, bearing this burden that was once mine. From the looks of things, you are going to need it.”

  
He was gone before Malik could respond, but that did not stop him from thinking, as he rose to close the door to his chamber once more, that perhaps it was Altair who would need the luck and strength. After all, the path he was embarking on was very different from the one he had left.

  
He wondered what Al Mualim was thinking, appointing a man such as Altair to be Dai. Perhaps he hoped it would instill patience. Perhaps it was simply more favoritism. It was not in Malik’s place to question the motives of the Grand Master, but still, he could not help but wonder and worry.

  
As he readied for sleep, he prayed to a god he was no longer sure he believed in. He prayed that Kadar’s soul rested safely in whatever afterlife there was for men such as he. He prayed that he would find the strength to carry out these tasks, and that he would not fail the Brotherhood.

  
And as he drifted into dreams, he found himself praying that, whatever the reasons for the events that have occurred so quickly, fate would be kind to him and Altair, and give them the strength to do the things they must.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, there should be one more chapter of non-game stuff, and then we move on to the first mission in Damascus. I hope you don't mind all this character development stuff-- it's what I do best, and I'm afraid that even with a 'major' secondary character such as Malik, there's still a lot that needs to be developed for the story to properly move forward.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo this has been sitting in my doc for like a year now and I should probably post it. Next chapter should finally get us back into the main Assassin's Creed plotline. Only problem is I don't know when I'll have the time or energy to work on it.  
> Thanks for putting up with my inability to have an update schedule or update regularly, folks. Hopefully after this chapter I'll really be able to get the ball rolling & keep things going.

The morning brought a knock on his door, and Rauf’s deep voice. “Are you awake, Brother?”

Malik was, in fact. He was unsure if he’d even slept at all. He had bathed and dressed before the sun began to rise, and then had simply sat, waiting for dawn. He stood and opened the door. “I am awake, Rauf. Is there something you need?”

Rauf wore a look of exhaustion, and seemed surprised to find Malik so well put together-- the sun had only risen perhaps half an hour ago. “Altair and some others are leaving for Jerusalem in a few moments. If you want to say your goodbyes--”

“We said our goodbyes last night.” Perhaps he was too abrupt, too harsh -- because the way Rauf’s eyes narrowed was the same way he would look at a particularly stubborn and foolish journeyman.

“So the two of you didn’t part on good terms. I wish I were surprised. I thought you two were friends once.” He held up a hand as Malik began to respond. “Forgive me, Malik, but I am not in the mood for your 'corrections' this morning. There was an incident with the journeymen last night and I have gotten no rest.”

“Yes, I noticed you didn’t come to try and talk to me. Which you don’t have to do, Rauf. We both have our duties to attend to, and I am managing well enough.” He tried to sound sincere, but still saw quiet rebuke in Rauf’s eyes.

“We’ve been friends since we were young, Malik. I know how you like to sit and stew regardless of how it affects those around you.” The instructor gave a tired sigh. “Please, Malik. Come and talk to me tomorrow. It will be good-- for the both of us.”

“I can’t. Tomorrow I leave for Damascus.” It was not meant as a deterrent, or a spur-of-the-moment decision. He’d decided when he would leave last night, after the unfortunate encounter with his once-partner.

“Already? Has Al Mualim deemed it safe?” Masun may have been dealt with, but the scouts were still present; Malik did not tell Rauf that he shared the same concerns when Al Mualim assigned the mission.

“Al Mualim told me I may take some time to rest before leaving. I am rested, and as such, it is time for my to leave.”

Rauf’s eyes were narrowed as he scanned Malik’s face. “Rested. Right.” His acceptance was begrudging. “I suppose if it’s Al Mualim’s orders you rush to follow, you would have very little time. To delay is to risk much.” He paused, pointedly meeting Malik’s eyes. “But so is to rush, and to push forward before you are ready.”

Malik could feel his weariness threatening to break through at Rauf’s concern, and let his voice be soft. “I respect the concern you have for me, Rauf. I know you do not mean ill. But I am fine. And as you said, to delay is to risk much. In two more weeks time, my target may be gone from Damascus. I must leave as soon as I can.”

Rauf sighed heavily, and clapped his hand on Malik’s shoulder. “Go safely, then, brother. I won’t wake tomorrow to see you off. I’m not even sure if I’ll wake this evening for dinner.”

Malik rolled his eyes, but returned the gesture. “Safety and peace, my friend. Take solace that the journeymen will get no rest until after the sun sets.”

The swordsman only sighed again. “Oh, if only that were proper reparation for the night I’ve had…” He turned and sluggishly made his way down the hallway, leaving Malik to wonder what, exactly, the journeymen had done while he was asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just making a brief edit to say that I am placing this fic on hiatus until such a time as I have inspiration to work on it again. I've started working on a different fic idea from around the same time I first conceptualized this one that is decidedly different -- a modern AU that, unlike this, is planned to be AltMal. Feel free to keep an eye out for that.
> 
> Or, while waiting, you can read a scene I wrote for much, much later in this fic: http://vicreatesthings.tumblr.com/post/147519435387/hey-so-like-since-i-keep-putting-off-working-on (it's subject to change by the time that actual scene comes around so i don't have any qualms showing it to you)
> 
> Sorry to you folks who may be disappointed in my inability to keep an update schedule, or even move on with the story instead of taking three chapters to explore Malik's inner turmoils.


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